


When It Starts

by TeethFarie



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, Hurt No Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Julian Devorak Route - Reversed Ending, Other, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, i promise I have something sweet in the works for birblian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:21:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29597535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeethFarie/pseuds/TeethFarie
Summary: When Julian finally gives up, gives in, his skin starts to itch.He’s given up on fighting the devil. How could he have ever won? He’s just a human. It’s as simple as that.The feathers come painfully. He’s not as human as he thought he was.
Relationships: Apprentice/Julian Devorak
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	When It Starts

**Author's Note:**

> Please tread carefully, there’s some harmful themes in this one!!!  
> I wanted to give my take on Julian’s time in the hanged raven before MC finds him. Make sure to read the tags!

When Julian finally gives up, gives in, his skin starts to itch.

He’s given up on fighting the devil. How could he have ever won? He’s just a human. It’s as simple as that.

The feathers come painfully. He’s not as human as he thought he was. They scar his skin when he tugs them out and they come back thicker. He used them to write. Write to who? Every now and again, he’ll forget who he’s writing these letters to—letters he’s never sent.

It horrifies him—the thought of forgetting someone so special.

The most painful is when his legs shift: it starts with his calves, bone splintering until it cracks at an unnatural and grotesque angle. His skin stretches with it, like putty as it spreads over the shattered bone. Julian lays on the floor screaming, the pain so intense he passes out. When he awakens it’s only halfway finished.

The scales come after that, once his legs are bent and ruined. They cover his skin up to his knees and his nails grow into pointed talons.

When rough scales grow on his hands, he isn’t surprised. He isn’t surprised when feathers cover his body or when thick wings sprout from his spine either—the worse has already happened, the damage already done.

Or so he thought.

The first time he saw you push open the doors to the Hanged Raven, he leaps up in joy, nearly sobbing your name. You had come back for him! 

Your face contorts into a grimace, craning your neck up to glare at his bird-like exterior.  _ “You aren’t Julian.”  _ Your voice came warbled and oddly pitched, like something else was speaking for you.

Julian’s heart dropped. 

Each illusion comes better formed than the last, tearing into his confidence, willpower, and sanity with each scowl, with each roll of their eyes.

_ “You’re a monster!” _

When he thought the worse had already come, the illusions started to touch him. They pet his feathers with mock tenderness and stroked his scales. For once, he felt maybe it would be ok—that when you come back you’d hold him close and tell him it was ok. 

One illusion gets the better of him.

They sneak into his barricades with gentle touches and kind smiles, mimicking your speech near perfectly. He believes it really is you.

They preen his feathers and pick glass from his taloned feet, they hold him in their lap and kiss his tears away.

When they finally get intimate, a wave of disgust washes over their face.

_ “What..is this?” _

They poke at what lays in between his legs, recoiling when a lubricant like substance coats their finger. “I-it’s new—I know-“

They back away, wiping their hand on their trousers.  _ “I can’t do this.”  _ They put distance between the both of them, looking green in the face. “What do you mean, dear..?” Julian lifts himself up, reaching out to them, longing and confused. “You said you loved me the same..” he crouches on the ground, too afraid to stand his full height, too afraid to tower over them.

_ “You’re..disgusting.”  _ They hissed.  _ “I could deal with the feathers—but this??”  _ They scoff and pull their shirt back on. Julian stares with tears brimming his eyes. “M-my love—“

_ “No.”  _ They scowl, the tender nature leaving their form.

They seem to glitch in front of him, their form swirling like smoke before reforming.

Julian sobs. He should have known they were another illusion.

He accepts the illusions now. Sometimes, they offer softness he indulges in, even if it would always turn sour.

He still accepts when the illusions press on to him and initiate something intimate—but he still cries and wallows in a self deprecating pool when they get rough and degrade, like they’d rather be doing anything else.

He still chases that pleasure when he’s given, and he still cries himself to sleep even when his throat is ragged and his eyes are dry. 

He deserved this. He really did. 

How could he have been any good for you? He hurt you and this is his punishment. In the past, he remembers being a glutton for pain and punishment—but now he recoils at the thought of being hurt outside of his own self harming tendencies.

His mouth is sour and dry, like cotton on his tongue and the taste of spoiled milk down his throat. He can’t remember the last time he’s dranken water. Does he really need it anymore? He doesn’t recall the last he’s eaten, either. Has he been doing it without a second thought—or had he just outgrown the need to entirely?

It doesn’t matter. The endless bottle of Salty Bitters offers him whatever semblance of nutrition it contains—which is admittedly not much at all. 

He’s tired. When was the last he slept? Sometimes he wakes without realizing he’s slept at all, brain foggy and liquid in his skull.

He’s contemplated it.

Suicide.

He feels he’s waiting on something—something he can’t remember. He feels it’d be the wrong time, that he can’t go through with it, not yet. But it  _ hurts _ . It hurts so very much.

Once in an episode of despair and fear, he picked up a shard of glass and tried to slice open his flesh, but the ragged edges smoothed just as it pressed against his skin. 

Ah, he was even a failure at failing, huh? 

In the beginning, he would talk to himself, but he can’t bear to hear himself anymore. His voice has gone jagged and sharp and it cracks when he raises his volume. The last time he tried, something embarrassingly sounding like a squawk tore from his throat.

He wants this to be over, though he knows it can’t. He made his decision, he made his deal.

The door rattles open and he sighs. 


End file.
